Re:Start
by plenoptic
Summary: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker never had a family. They thought they would never escape Kaon's gladiatorial pits, that cannon fodder was all they would ever be. But as the war grows more heated, a promise of something more comes along with a burst of flames. Twins!centric, OptimusxElita. M for youth violence. Giftfic!


_Re:Start_

_**For Ryo**  
_

* * *

_**The early vorns of the war…**_

_**Kaon**_

_**The Pits**_

Sunstreaker's weapon of choice for gladiatorial matches was a dagger.

It always had been—he wasn't strong enough to heft the massive battleaxes and swords and spears and rifles that the adult fighters used. He found bows slow and ineffectual, especially when sixty tons of armored mech was barreling toward him across the ring. But he had grown up around the gladiators, had gleaned information from them. He knew where the gaps in the armor were—knew that when the arm arced upwards, the shoulder plating and chest plating came apart ever so slightly, exposing a critical energon line. Knew that when the helm tilted forward, a blade could easily puncture the base of the cranial unit, severing the electrical connection to the rest of the body.

For his third fight in the rings, Sunny walked into the pit holding only his stained dagger in his right hand, his fingers clenched tightly around the hilt. The sound of the crowd was immediately deafening. Spectators leaned over the rails, screaming at him, jeering, shouting, so many voices blurring into so much white noise. Sunny lifted his head, peering out from the thick ridges of his modified helmet armor, glaring up at the VIP box in the center stand.

Silver armor glinted as the box's largest and most formidable occupant leaned forward, lips curling back off of wickedly curved denta in a taunting grin. Cybertron's former High Protectorate and current unstoppable tyrant, Kaon's unchallenged king and ruler…

Lord Megatron.

Setting his jaw, Sunstreaker turned his gaze back down the ring, staring at his opponent. Lockjoint was a brute of a mech, bigger even than Megatron, more reckless than Starscream, but possibly less charismatic than Soundwave. Still, he made a formidable enemy. His armor was impossibly thick, singed with what appeared to be marks left by cannon blasts. Twin rifles hung from each hand, and various weaponry criss-crossed his scarred torso. Wicked horns hooked forward from his helmet—probably not an effective weapon, unless anyone was stupid enough to get within goring distance. His optics were nothing but rage and madness.

Sunny didn't let himself feel afraid. He squared himself, lowering his upper body, planting his left hand upon the ground and clenching his right fist more tightly around his dagger. That dagger had killed two mechs already—tonight it would fell a third.

He chanced another glance up at the box. Megatron was seated, still smiling down at him. It wasn't a kind smile, but a challenge. _Show me what you can do. Only the strong survive in Kaon_.

Sunstreaker huffed, looking back at Lockjoint and digging his pedes into the ground. He was strong. He had to be. Sideswipe needed him to be.

Someone shouted for them to begin, and from that moment onward, Sunstreaker heard nothing. He saw red. Everything slowed down, time crawled to a near halt. Sunny knew he was glitched—his battle processors were far too advanced, his abilities in combat far too developed. It wasn't a matter of skill. He was built and programmed to fight, to maim, to kill.

Lockjoint moved. He came at Sunny like a deranged animal, roaring, swinging the butt of one rifle in a wild arc. It was a stupid move, pointless—Sunstreaker was already too low to the ground. The smaller mech skirted forward, dodging between Lockjoint's feet, and thrust his dagger deep into the right ankle strut. Lockjoint howled, kicking his foot out, but Sunny was already on his flank, dancing around the mech's raining blows. Lockjoint abandoned his rifles and drew his massive broadswords, crackling with energy. Sunny grimaced, ducking away from the first swipe and growling to himself when the air hummed in the wake of the swing. He hated ener-sabers.

His foe shouted something—'Stay still'?—but Sunny was beyond hearing whatever the other mech had to say. Lockjoint leapt forward, his arms spread wide, ready to bring his sword down in a deadly diagonal. Sunny moved first, plunged the dagger forward, deep into the gap between Lockjoint's chestplates.

For a moment, Lockjoint only looked stunned, staring down at the small protruding piece of metal in his chest. Sunstreaker swiftly moved backwards, though not fast enough to avoid the abrupt spray of energon from the wound—he just barely moved away in time to roll away as Lockjoint's immense mass came crashing to the ground, his swords and rifles clattering for a moment before lying still.

The crowd of onlookers gasped as one body, and then once again they erupted into screams, most in outrage—of course they had bet on the local champion, Lockjoint, to pin some snotty punk. Some all but danced in the stands—they had bet on the kid and bet big. Panting, Sunstreaker got to his feet, approaching the fallen gladiator and reaching beneath the gnarled faceplates to grope around the chest. He straightened, clutching the filthy dagger in one hand. The blade pulled wires, muscular cables, and shards of shattered sparkcase with it.

Sunny turned and glared up into the box. Megatron, still smirking down at him, clapped twice. Covered in grime and Lockjoint's energon, Sunstreaker shoved his dagger back into its sheath and left the ring.

On his eleventh sparkday, Sunstreaker killed for the third time.

* * *

"I'm here for my winnings."

The bet taker, Daxus, arched his optic ridges and leaned over his counter, staring down at the youngling before him. "Don't know whatcher talkin' about, kid."

"I just beat Lockjoint," Sunstreaker ground out, glaring at the ugly face leering down at him. "There were two hundred credits on that match, and an extra cycle's worth of energon."

Daxus barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, right. We don't have enough to feed our full-grown fighters—what makes you think I'm going to waste energon on a punk like you?"

"I'm a gladiator!" Sunstreaker yelled, launching a vicious kick into the counter, making Daxus yelp in surprise. "I killed Lockjoint! I stabbed him in the spark! Give me what's mine!"

"You shut your fragging mouth, kid," Daxus snarled, getting to his feet and pointing a finger down at the furious youngling, "or I'll tear out your slagging vocal processors, you understand?"

Sunny could only glare, fury and disbelief making him tremble. He could try to kill Daxus, but murdering the bet taker would only infuriate the gladiators and the spectators, all waiting for their cut. But if the mech wouldn't give—

"Daxus. Please. That's no way to treat one of our warriors."

Sunstreaker whirled around, his spark nearly stopping in his chest at the silver mech towering behind him. Megatron, flanked as always by his loyal lieutenants, Starscream and Soundwave, looked pointedly at Daxus, who swallowed audibly.

"His pay, Daxus."

The bet taker disappeared for a moment, returning to the counter a breath later and dropping a sack into Sunny's arms, mumbling wordlessly. The youngling paused, shooting a glance up at Megatron, unsure of what to do next.

"Go," Megatron intoned, nodding toward the back door. "Back to the dorms with you, whelp. The crowd is not happy with you." Then he grinned, his denta bared wickedly. "But continue down this path, and someday they will chant your name."

Sunstreaker didn't have anything to say. He bolted, clutching his winnings to his chest, and scrambled out the backdoor, hurrying through the alley and ducking through the hidden passage into the dorms.

* * *

_**Iacon**_

_**Autobot Headquarters**_

"…Stop thinking that."

Optimus Prime lifted his helm from the palms of his hands, blinking wearily at the rose-hued femme sitting on the other side of his desk. "Er…what am I thinking that I oughtn't be thinking?"

Elita One frowned, leaning forward across her lover's desk to place her hands on top of his, squeezing his fingers gently. "Stop thinking that we're going to fail. Stop thinking that we'll lose too much or too many. Stop thinking that we won't be able to save those younglings."

The Autobot supreme commander smiled bitterly, shaking his head. "You know me too well…"

She cracked a grin, nuzzling the palm that lifted to gently cup her cheek. "And don't you fragging forget it."

He sat back in his seat, beckoning to her, and she physically crawled across the desk to settle into his lap, getting his ever-present battlemask to retract with the swipe of one finger down its center. Elita grinned, leaning in and brushing her mouthplates across his, offering him an inviting purr when he mouthed her gently, his hands lifting to rest upon her thighs, splayed intimately over his. Inwardly, she marveled out how quickly a strategic session in his office could transform into a coupling on his lap, but she welcomed the distraction. It kept her processor on the good things in her life, rather than the bad things for which she risked it.

A brisk knock sounded upon the door just as she was happily getting her fingers underneath his chestplates, and he groaned softly—a tortured mixture of pleasure and exasperation. She shook her head, stealing a last kiss from his warm mouth before sidling off of his lap, resuming her place across his desk as he bid their visitor enter.

Prowl stepped in through the open doors, arms laden with datapads, looking flustered. "Optimus, sir," he said, dipping his head toward Elita. "Milady."

"Good evening, Prowl. Are those the rest of the mission specs?"

"Yes, sir," the tactician replied, dropping his load on the desk with an audible sigh of relief. Optimus, however, looked immediately downtrodden, looking sadly back and forth from his existing pile of work, his new tasks, and the gorgeous femme he'd come _this_ close to being inside. Elita hid a smile, looking down at the work in her lap.

"How are we doing?" the Prime asked with a sigh, picking up the topmost datapad and beginning to download its contents, scrawling his signature across the front before passing it across the desk to Elita.

"We have over three hundred so far—and that's just for the infiltration," Prowl answered briskly. "We'll have no trouble at all amassing a force big enough to antagonize Kaon's flank while a special team gets inside to find the refugees."

Optimus nodded, his face grim. Prowl surreptitiously glanced from one commander to the next, quirking an optic ridge upwards. The absence of his commander's battlemask was a tell-tale sign that he and Elita had been…involved…when the tactician walked in, but he wasn't about to point it out. No sense in embarrassing the already stressed Prime. Besides, it was something of a relief that things seemed to be working out well between them. With the balance of the war apt to swing in their favor or dramatically against it at a moment's notice, a breakup between the two commanders would be catastrophic—not only for their emotional and mental health, but for the troops' morale, too.

Shaking his head to clear it of thoughts that were completely unrelated to the mission, Prowl leaned down, explaining the remainder of the specs to Optimus—pointing out where things would go smoothly, where they would get tricky, who was best suited for which task…

Elita watched the mechs quietly, spark twisting at the expression on Optimus's face. He was so anxious—they all were. The knowledge that Megatron was using his precious energon supplies as prizes in the gladiatorial fights had been shocking—the knowledge that he was making the district's _younglings_ fight for their share had been mortifying. It meant that only those strong enough to overcome their opponents would receive vital nourishment. It was natural selection at its worst—only the very strongest would survive in Megatron's fortress city.

There was nothing the Autobots could do for the adults of Kaon; they stayed there of their own free will. All but the roughest citizens had left. But there were the younglings to be concerned about, many of them orphans of the war. As far as Optimus and Elita were concerned, those children were prisoners of war, _Megatron's_ prisoners…and Megatron's prisoners very rarely survived their captivity.

Scavenger had been sent into Kaon. He had a reputation there, having been a gladiator and ruthless mercenary vorns and vorns ago, before he'd been swayed to the Autobot side by Optimus Prime, his longtime student and friend. He blended seamlessly into the pits, and had learned that younglings who were actively fighting lived in a set of dormitories beneath the rings. He'd used the word 'dormitories' loosely—they were little more than retrorat holes. No berths, no warmth, no comfort to be spoken of. Filthy. Degenerate.

Elita placed a hand on her chestplates, shuttering her optics against the wave of fiery hate that rose up in her spark. She and Optimus would stop Megatron, free those younglings, if it was the last thing they did.

And, based on Prowl and her lover's somber expressions, it very well could be.

* * *

_**The Dorms**_

"Sides! Sides, wake up!"

Sideswipe groaned, rolling into his side and rubbing a fist against his optics, squinting up at the grinning face leaning down at him. "What?"

"Look at what I got," Sunstreaker said proudly, shaking the bag of credits in front of his brother's optics. "We'll have extra energon for a cycle! Plus whatever the credits can get us. You wanted a repaint, didn't you?"

"No, Sunny, that was you…" Sideswipe sat up slowly, his optics fixed on the bag. "Sunny, how…how'd you get that much?"

"Helping Daxus run the bets—come on, I've told you this before," Sunny replied smoothly, flashing his brother a grin. "When the betters get too much in them, they don't pay attention to who's rummaging around in their subspace."

"You shouldn't steal, Sunny, they'll hurt you if you get caught," Sideswipe murmured, turning large, sad optics upon his twin. Sunny froze under that gaze, guilt seeping into every line. Sideswipe would never forgive him if he knew the truth…

"Don't worry about it, Sides," Sunstreaker assured him, taking his twin's hand and forcing a wide smile. "We need it."

Sideswipe's gaze softened, and he flopped back on his pile of blankets. "I wish I were as strong as you, Sunny."

The little mech sat down, placing the bag between them and sighing quietly. Sideswipe couldn't help that he was sick, that Sunny was the stronger of them. They couldn't help that their parents were gone, lost to the cause that neither of their sons believed in.

They couldn't help that no one was coming to save them.

* * *

_**Kaon**_

_**The border…**_

"Alright. Ironhide's unit is going to harass the walls from the east—hit them hard and fast, 'Hide. Don't give them time to figure out what's happening."

"Ah dunno, Prime," Ironhide murmured, optics narrowing as he gazed down at the rough map his commander had drawn in the fine layer of ash that covered the ground. "Won' they figger ou' wha' we're up ta?"

"They will, eventually," Elita answered. She was hovering behind the assembled special ops team, one hand resting upon her rifle. Her optics were fixed firmly on the distant, looming figure of Kaon. "So we're depending on you, Ironhide. Hopefully, by the time they realize what's really happening, we'll be nearly out."

The weapons specialist grunted, getting to his feet. "Well. If mah only job is ta slag 'Cons, then there won' be no problem."

Optimus smiled warmly, grasping his comrade by the shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. Stay safe."

Ironhide snapped one hand upward into a brisk salute, offering his leader a crooked grin before striding toward his contingent. No less than three hundred mechs and femmes stood restlessly nearby, preparing for the assault.

For as much strength as was needed to distract the Decepticons, however, almost three times as much was required for the mission that lay just within the walls. For this, Optimus had spared no expense. He, Elita, Jazz, and one of Jazz's most trusted teams of seven mechs would be going into Kaon itself and escorting the dorms' inhabitants to safety.

_: Optimus. _: Ultra Magnus's deep, rumbling bass cut in sharply through his comm. link. _: It's not too late for me to bridge there and join you… :_

_: No, Magnus. You're the only one who can assume command should something happen. :_

_: Then one of you should stay here! : _Magnus snapped. _: Allow me to take your place, or Elita's! :_

Optimus glanced back over his shoulder at his lover, optics dimming when she lifted a hand and offered him the smallest of waves. _: No. We're doing this together. :_

Elita sighed quietly, lowering her hand as Optimus turned away once more, still arguing with his High Protectorate. She and Jazz stood a small distance away from the commander, waiting patiently for their operation to commence.

The saboteur looked sideways at the rose femme—he was short, and she stood only a little below his optic level—and clicked his glossa against the roof of his mouth, thinking. "You should tell him, ya know."

The femme commander turned toward him, lifting her optic ridges. "Tell who what?" she inquired, but she knew what was coming before he said it.

"You should tell Optimus that you love him," Jazz clarified, nodding toward their bold commander as he began to make his rounds, speaking once more with Ironhide before addressing the troops. Elita tightened her jaw, looking away, and Jazz pressed harder. "These suicide missions are going to be coming more and more often. Who knows what'll happen tomorrow? Tell him now. You'd never forgive yourself if something happened to him and he never knew how you really felt."

"I can't," she bit out. "If this gets any more serious, I'm…" _Going to lose myself_. "It's hard enough as it is now, Jazz. Every time my comm. goes off, I fear it's someone calling to tell me that _he's gone._ Every time we kiss, I think, _this could be the last_. I can't recharge without him next to me, I can't rest, I can't relax…that anxiety, it…kills me."

Jazz frowned, blind optics flickering behind his visor. "You're thinking about leaving him, aren't you?"

Elita shunted a hard breath from her intakes, dipping her helm. "Jazz. As soon as I'm…_with_ him…I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to go _without_ him. Does that make sense?"

The saboteur hummed softly, rocking back and forth on his feet. "But you are with him, Elita. And all that worry, all that anxiety…don't you think he goes through the same thing? He knows you do, too. Do you think he'd be willing to put you both through that if he thought he could do without you?"

She hesitated, and Jazz knew he'd struck a chord. He reached out a hand, placing it gently upon her shoulder.

"I just don't wanna see you two lyin' to yourselves," he murmured. "Life's too short for that. Especially _our_ lives."

The femme trembled faintly, but she placed her hand atop his, smiling weakly. "Thank you, Jazz. I'll…think about what you've said."

He bobbed his head up and down, giving her shoulder a squeeze. Heavy footsteps approached them, and both looked up to see Optimus come to a halt a small distance away, watching them uncertainty. Jazz released the femme, offering Optimus a quick salute as he dodged around his commander, giving the leaders some relative privacy.

"What was that?" Optimus rumbled, arching his optic ridges.

Elita giggled, stepping forward and resting her hands upon his chestplates, grinning coyly up at him. "Jealous, are we?"

"No," the Prime retorted defensively, making it perfectly clear that he was all but green with envy.

The femme smiled, beckoning him with one finger. The immense mech obliged her, leaning down to her level, and she planted a soft kiss against the side of his mask, cupping the side of his helm in her palm to steady him.

"No worries, Optimus," she murmured, nuzzling him gently. "You're the only one…"

Strong, warm arms suddenly swept her up, and she found herself clutched against a hard male chest. Warm air from his frame wafted over her armor. He leant down, holding her close, turning his face to murmur in her audio—

And that was when the gladiatorial district of Kaon went up in flames.

* * *

_**The Dorms**_

"_Sideswipe!"_

Sunstreaker coughed, hunching over, hacking against the smoke clogging his filters. The heat was unbearable—his armor _vibrated_ with it, burning against his protoform. Warnings flickered at the edge of his vision, but he ignored them. He had to find Sideswipe.

"Sides! _Sides!_ Please—where—"

Why hadn't Sideswipe been sleeping beside him, like always? Where could he have gone in the middle of the night? Why were the dorms under attack? Who was attacking? Why…?

He was so dizzy. He seized the nearest wall, squinting through the smoke, flinching away from a lick of flames nearby. Someone was screaming—several "someone"s were screaming, high pitches filling the air, nearly drowned by the crackling of the flames and the sound of artillery fire in the distance.

Maybe it had been Autobots who attacked? Sunny had figured, from listening to the adults, that they didn't have the firepower to attack Kaon directly, but maybe Megatron's intel had been wrong…maybe they'd been lied to…

The ground trembled under a second barrage of missile fire, far enough away that it could have been aimed at the pits. Sunny stumbled and fell, making contact with the hard, hot ground. He lay still, blinking blearily through the smog, watching the approaching flames. His spark, too, felt like it was on fire, incinerated along with the dorms. He watched his world go up in smoke, helpless to stop it.

_Did Sides get out? _

Heat. His hand flinched when flames danced up his arm, but he was powerless to do anything but watch, gaze at his own warping, melting metal.

_Please. Please let Sides be safe. Please…_

Fire on his protoform. The agony that lanced through him was white hot, but it belonged to someone else, to another world. He felt so heavy, so tired…the fumes of the smoke were addling his processors, confusing him…hot chemical waste rushed through his lines, poisoning his energon, making his pump ache and grind…

"_Slag!_ Primus, are you still alive?!"

Something heavy fell over him, rough, coarse fabric. He recognized the smell—the acrid, processed tang of a fire tarp. Someone was touching him, suffocating the flames with the tarp, patting him out.

"Got you, I've got you," a low, anxious voice murmured near his audio. "It's alright, brightspark, you're safe…"

_Safe_. What an interesting notion. He hadn't felt truly safe for a long, long time…

"Sides," he croaked out, resisting the arms that tried to lift him, still wrapped in the tarp to protect him from the growing flames. "Sideswipe…"

"Who's Sideswipe, brightspark?"

"My brother…" Suddenly he was crying, his chassis heaving, shaking sobs breaking free before he could stop them. "Please—_please_—!"

Too much. There was too much smoke, too much heat, the arms wrapped around him were too warm, too secure. His spark lunged and thrashed against its casing. He felt so heavy…

"Frag," Elita One ground out, frowning when the youngling's optics went dark. "Ironhide! Where are you!"

"Here," came a rumble from behind her. Adjusting the youngling in her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder, she turned on her heel, squinting through the gloom. Ironhide emerged from the smoke, coughing, three small frames cradled close to his chassis.

"We have to get out," she said, shouting over the roar of the fire. He nodded, too winded to reply, and they pushed through the debris together, Elita taking point to make sure the path was clear for Ironhide to carry through his burden.

The night sky emerged like a salve from Primus. Elita forced herself to keep moving, putting distance between herself and burning ruins of the pits, setting the little golden youngling upon the ground before collapsing to her hands and knees, sucking in clean air, disturbed by the rattling of her vents.

Ironhide fell on his aft beside her with nothing short of a _boom_, placing his cargo beside hers before slapping a hand on her back. "Cough it all up, ye'll feel bettah," he croaked. He turned his battered helm upwards, squinting at the column of smoke wafting lazily into the sky. "Prahmus. Who _did_ this?"

"Wasn't us," Elita managed to gasp out, shaking her head. "Optimus would never…"

"Rebels, then? Inside Kaon."

"Must be…"

Ironhide frowned. "Tha' don' explain why th' little'uns were attacked…"

"They must not have known," the femme commander murmured, sitting back on her aft and looking sadly down at the four younglings they'd managed to pull free. Neither of them voiced the horrific thought, but they both knew that any other young inside were long dead. "We only found out because Scavenger infiltrated the rings themselves."

The weapons specialist only grunted, turning his optics onto the rose femme. He reached out a large hand to gently brush at a smudge of ash on her cheekplate, startling her. "Prime'll have ah fit if he sees ya like this…"

Elita frowned, catching his hand in her own. "Hide…we should go find him. Maybe he and the others were able to—"

"Usurp me further?"

Ironhide blinked, startled—Elita was no longer beside him. She was airborne, tiny frame flung aside, hitting the ground with a sick thud. Megatron pivoted on his heel, catching the weapons specialist in a vicious backhand just as Ironhide went for his rifle, knocking the red mech backwards onto the street. Ironhide scrambled back to his feet, venting hard, optics darting from Megatron to Elita's still form, then down to the motionless younglings on the ground.

"You vermin are persistent, aren't you," Megatron growled, keeping one optic on Ironhide while he took slow, measured steps toward the unconscious femme. "No matter how hard I _swat_, you keep coming _back_."

"Don't touch her," Ironhide spat, pulling his rifle from subspace and aiming for the warlord's head. His pump was hammering. Where was Prime?!

"I'm curious," Megatron said softly, quirking a smile, "are you so desperate for a victory that you'd slaughter a district full of orphans? I didn't know Prime had it in him."

"He…doesn't…"

Ironhide's gaze snapped downwards, and his tanks plummeted. "Elita—don't—"

The femme sat up shakily, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, glaring up at the silver mech looming over her. "Optimus had…nothing…to do with this…"

"I thought not," Megatron chuckled, bending down to her level, lips lifting from his denta in a fanged grin. Ironhide lunged forward, only to find himself abruptly tackled from behind and onto the ground once more, unforgiving laughter filling his audios. "Optimus never did have the _guts_ to do what must be done…"

Unnoticed by the adults, Sunstreaker was stirring, the clear air cooling his burned frame, consciousness floating back into his addled mind. He lifted his helm, blinking blearily around at his surroundings. He shook it once to clear it of the bizarre image in front of him, but it only grew sharper. Megatron? What was the greatest gladiator of them all doing here? The youngling craned his helm, catching a glimpse of red armor from between Megatron's splayed feet. A femme…?

A hard shout from his left. Sunny snapped his head around, catching sight of Ironhide being roughly pinned by two Seekers, Megatron's favorite lackeys. The femme and the red mech were Autobots, then…?

Megatron abruptly moved, lunging down and hooking his fingertips beneath the femme's chestplates, ignoring her hiss of pain and dragging her upright.

"Call him," the Decepticon commander snarled, shaking her roughly when she only glared at him in response. "You can't fool me, femme, I know he has a line open for _you_, and for you alone. Tell him to come here. Tell him he'll meet me in combat _now_ if he wants you to live to see tomorrow."

"Frag you," the femme spat.

Snorting, Megatron opened his hand, dropping her to the ground. He withdrew his rifle at an almost leisurely pace, halting her struggles to sit up by leveling the barrel calmly at her face.

"_Hey!"_ Ironhide roared, shaking off one of the Seekers with a wild kick and struggling to reach Megatron. "Hey you—the big, ugly fraggah! Ya migh' only have th' chance ta slag one o' us before Prime gets here—make it count!"

"Oh?" Megatron chuckled, glancing over his shoulder and lifting an optic ridge at the struggling mech. "And what do you suggest?"

"It'd be in bad taste ta hurt ah lady," Ironhide growled. "How abou' ya act like ah _real_ mech fer once? 'Sides, she don' mean ah thing ta Prime, he don' even _know_ 'er."

Megatron chuckled. "A noble effort, Ironhide. You fail to realize, however, that I've known this femme…as has Optimus…for a long time." He looked down at Elita, a grin quirking his mouthplates. "I'm no fool. You've been warming my dear brother's berth for some time now, haven't you, sweetspark?" Elita set her jaw, flinching when he extended a hand to caress her cheek. "Prime has good taste. You're a pretty little thing, aren't you, _Lita_? A shame I could never lower myself to using his second-hand goods, or I'd take you for myse—"

Movement—and then Megatron was _flying_, hurtled through the air, landing with a _crunch_ by the burning dorms. Neither of the Seekers had time to react before they each took a live round to the chest, spark casing cracking and rupturing, dropping them almost instantaneously.

"Abou' time," Ironhide growled, staggering to his feet and scowling at his commander.

Optimus Prime paid him no heed, making a beeline for his stunned partner and bending down to her level. "I'm sorry I didn't get here in time," he murmured, reaching for her broken frame and taking her gently into his arms.

She shuddered, grimacing when something in her abdomen pulled taut, pain shivering through her circuits. "Optimus, no," she groaned, protesting when he stood, lifting her up off the ground. "Focus on Megatron…"

"I intend to, but not until you and the younglings are out of harm's way," Optimus rumbled. "Ironhide. Contact Ratchet, she's hurt."

"I'm fi—"

"On it, Prime."

"Thank you. And get the younglings out of here, both of them."

Elita stilled. Oh, Primus, there was that sinking feeling. "Both…?" She craned her head to look around Optimus's immense girth, her spark twisting at the sight of only two younglings upon the ground. "Oh, no. Ironhide—two of them must have—"

"Nothin' we can do if they bolted," the weapons specialist rumbled, taking the femme at Prime's urging and cradling her carefully against his chest, mindful of her injuries. "Ah'll look aftah her, Prime."

Crouching nearby, hidden beneath a fallen support pillar, Sunstreaker watched breathlessly as the red mech bent, allowing the femme to scoop the remaining little ones into her arms, before taking off down the road at a brisk run. Sunny exhaled slowly, looking to his left, checking to ensure that his twin was still breathing before returning his attention to the last soldiers standing.

Megatron was beginning to move, getting slowly to his feet, snarling as he shook his helm clear of the fog that had fallen over it in the wake of the Prime's blow. Sunny watched the newcomer in awe—he'd only ever seen Optimus Prime in effigy, either on posters or in the form of the dummies that the gladiators liked to pummel in their free time. The real mech was astounding. Even covered in ash and dirt and smudged, drying energon—none of it, Sunny was sure, his own—he looked positively regal, his blue optics blazing over the rim of his battlemask.

"Megatron," he growled, planting his feet and pulling an impressively long sword from subspace, "why did you have the dormitories destroyed?"

"You fool," Megatron spat, clambering upright at last, "you really think I'd have my own pits blown to pieces? Where do you think my strongest soldiers come from?"

"Then you have rebels in your city," Prime retorted, just a hint of pride coloring his voice. "How does that make you feel, Megatron? Knowing that even the mechs under your very feet seek to topple you?"

"Enough of this," the warlord ground out, pulling out his rifle and swinging it upwards. "Enough of _you_, Optimus. You're not going to leave these walls."

"So be it," Optimus murmured, his optics dimming.

The gladiators that Sunny fought in the rings, the warriors he'd always looked up to, his heroes since childhood…had _nothing_ on the Prime and his former High Protectorate in one-on-one combat. It was by far the most vicious, brutal, violent thing the youngling had ever laid optics upon, and it chilled him to his core. Every blow seemed to shake the planet itself, every drop of energon spilled seemed an ocean. Terror crept through his lines, freezing his spark. He couldn't move, or run, he couldn't even look at Sideswipe, whom he felt stirring. All he could do was watch, in terrified awe, as Cybertron's two greatest warriors attempted to tear each other apart.

"Sunny," Sideswipe said hoarsely. "Sunny…as soon as they're not looking, we've gotta run for it. We'll die if we stay here."

His twin was right, and Sunstreaker knew it. But when, exactly, where they supposed to go? Being out in the open, in the middle of _that_, was veritable suicide. Yet every blow, every exchange, brought Megatron and the Prime a little closer to their pillar. They'd be crushed if they didn't move.

It was only a breem later—though it felt like an eternity—that the twins saw their chance. The Prime ducked beneath a wild swing, parrying the blow. He lunged forward, and, with a roar, plunged his blade into Megatron's lower leg. The Decepticon reeled with a shout, staggering backwards, and Prime pushed, forcing him to topple to the ground, pinning him.

"This is over," the Prime ground out, venting hard, his optics overbright. He pulled his rifle from subspace, leveling it between his brother's optics. "Megatron. Repent. Surrender here, now, and your life will be spared…though I can say nothing for what will happen to you in the future."

"Go!" Sideswipe hissed, pushing against his brother's shoulder.

Sunny didn't pause to think, to consider—Sideswipe moved, and he followed. They tore out from beneath the pillar, sprinting across the road. The burning dorms were behind them—the only way to escape into the city was to run _past_ the warring mechs.

They were too fast, their movement too abrupt. Megatron's head snapped to the side, and, for just a breath, they locked upon Sunny. The youngling didn't know what he was hoping for—some flicker of recognition, some silent acceptance that yes, he, Megatron, was going to fall, but his youngest gladiator would carry on his glory—

What Sunny saw was blind fury.

It was horrible, directionless, red hot, burning like a sun. The _malice_ in that gaze stopped Sunny in his tracks, his breath catching in his spark, and for one eternal moment he and the warlord stared one another down—Sunstreaker terrified, Megatron hating.

He saw what happened next in slow motion. Megatron's arm moved, aiming the rifle—_at him_—and his finger hitched, gripping the trigger. Optimus reeled, startled, optics locking upon the younglings and widening—children in Megatron's line of fire—

And then Megatron moved again, jerking the rifle upwards. Sunstreaker looked up, his optics met those of the Prime he had never met, the Prime that, because Sunny was a gladiator, he thought he hated. No rage there. No fury or hate in those blue optics. Just stunned disbelief, and then, as Megatron's rifle discharged, _relief_—because it was his spark on the line and not the little one's—

Time resumed normal speed, and a roar accompanied the spray of blue energon into the air. Sunstreaker was bowled over, something moving past him very fast, and an unbelievably large mech charged into Megatron, knocking him backwards just as the Prime fell with a sound akin to thunder.

"Chromia!" Ultra Magnus shouted, whipping around, capitalizing on Megatron's temporarily stunned state to bark out orders. "Grab the younglings and get back to the bridge! Scavenger, you get Optimus, get Ratchet on the comm. _now!_"

Once again, Sunstreaker found himself airborne, lifted into a dusky blue femme's arms. Sideswipe was similarly seized, and they blinked at each other over the femme's back.

"Alright, kids," she growled, dodging Megatron's furious, errant weapon fire and beating it onto a side street. "Auntie Chromi's here to take you home."

* * *

_**Two orns later…**_

_**Iacon**_

_**Autobase, medical bay…**_

"Very well, Sideswipe. Burn damage has healed and is now completely superficial. Can you please engage your superior appendicular rotary systems?"

Sideswipe stared at the medical aid, lifting his optic ridges. "Uh. What?"

"Move your arms," Jetfire put in helpfully from one berth over, grinning when Perceptor turned to glare at him. "Come on, Percy, they're kids. How are they supposed to know what fragged up language you're speaking?"

"I apologize, Jetfire, it must be truly infuriating to have to listen to my superior dialectical skills and know that you will never rise above the usage of slum jargon."

"Hey, mech, Jetfire ain't no slummer," Jazz objected, lifting his head and inspecting the work First Aid was doing on his mangled right foot.

"_Thank_ you, Jazz."

"They kicked him out a _long_ time ago!"

"_Hey!_"

Sideswipe laughed, but Sunstreaker scowled, rolling onto his side and grimacing when his burns rubbed uncomfortably against the berth. The pain was worth it—anything to put a little distance between him and those annoying Autobots.

"Easy there, kiddo, stay off that side," Red Alert said briskly, leaning over from where he was working on Jetfire and tapping Sunny's shoulder.

"Frag off," Sunny spat, glaring at the tech. "When can I go back to Kaon?"

"What are you, stupid?" Jetfire snorted, scratching absently at his chestplates. "You aren't _going_ back, punk."

"Why the frag not?!"

"Sunny," Sideswipe said nervously, but Jetfire talked over him.

"Why? Because we don't send talented young gladiators back to Megatron's little hive of mind-slave soldiers, that's why," the aerial commander retorted. "Besides, Optimus took the shot that was meant for _you_. You are slagging well gonna stick around and show some _gratitude_."

"I'd rather be dead than here with you," Sunstreaker growled, sitting up and glaring fiercely at the flier. "I'm a gladiator! We don't associate with soft-sparked Autobots."

"You're not a gladiator, Sunny, you just worked for Daxus," Sideswipe objected, then flinched when his twin rounded on him.

"No! I _am_ a gladiator! I've killed before! I got those credits from killing _Lockjoint_, not from taking bets! And I'll kill again if I have to—if it means I can go back where I belong!"

"You'll belong in the _brig_ if you don't shut up—and that goes for all of you!"

They all grimaced, looking up towards the door to the recovery ward, where a haggard-looking Ratchet was standing and scowling fiercely at them.

"You may all be happy and chipper and ready to go home, but _some_ patients here are _not_, and are trying to _rest_," the medic snarled, leveling a glare at Sunstreaker. "Including the mech who saved your life, so show some respect and pipe down."

"It's not my fault he got shot at point-blank range," Sunny snapped. "I didn't ask him to—"

"_Sunstreaker_!"

Sideswipe's outburst startled him into silence. He turned his head, staring at his twin, who glared fiercely back at him before looking at Ratchet.

"He'll be quiet," Sideswipe said softly. "He didn't mean what he said. When Optimus Prime wakes up, will you tell him we want to thank him personally, please?"

Ratchet looked at the little mech, appraising him for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that." He turned his gaze to Perceptor. "Hold down the fort in here, will you?"

"Yes, sir, Ratchet. I apologize."

The CMO only grunted before pushing off the door frame, heading back down the hall, presumably to the critical unit. Grumbling, Jetfire settled back against the berth, allowing Red Alert to resume his repairs.

Sideswipe lay back too, stubbornly ignoring his twin, who didn't stop glaring at him for the rest of the joor.

* * *

"_You'd never forgive yourself if something happened to him and he never knew how you really felt."_

Elita One churned out a groan, leaning forward against the side of berth and resting her helm on her folded arms. The hiss and steady beeping of Ratchet's medical equipment was maddening, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the room.

Her proximity sensors alerted her to the presence of a mech besides her unconscious lover, and she looked up to see Ultra Magnus hovering behind her, two cubes of energon in his hands.

"Sorry," he said softly, offering her a cube and a small smile. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"No—you're fine, Magnus, I wasn't recharging," she assured him, accepting the cube and patting the chair beside her. He sank into it wordlessly, and both turned their gazes back to the mech resting upon the berth.

"How…is he?"

The femme didn't answer for a long moment. Looking at Optimus in this state was almost more than she could bear. Megatron's fusion cannon was a weapon feared across the entire planet. It was designed just for him, created for the strongest gladiator of them all. It was capable of tearing smaller mechs to pieces, even at moderate range. A point-blank shot should have killed the Prime, and that should have been the end of it.

"Ratchet contacted Alpha Trion—we just wanted to know _why_ he survived," Elita said softly. She reached out, cupping Optimus's cheekplates in one hand, brushing her thumb over the bruised dermal plating. He was probably too heavily sedated to even recognize the contact, but touching him made her feel marginally better. "He thinks the Matrix must have shielded him, somehow. Absorbed some of the energy into itself, or…something. We can't be sure."

"So _this_…" Magnus gestured helplessly to their leader, his optics tracking the horrific damage, just barely held together by various temp welds and mesh bandages, "isn't as bad as it could have been?"

"He should be dead, Magnus," Elita said quietly. Then she turned her head, smiling a little. "Probably would be, if you didn't have such a stubborn tendency to disobey orders."

The mech chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll remind him of that when he tries to throw me in the brig for doing so."

The double doors guarding their privacy slid open, and Ratchet stepped in, making his way to the opposite side of the berth and looking up at his monitors with a long, low sigh.

"Sorry about all the noise outside, Elita," he said grumpily, adjusting the amount of sedative in his patient's drip. "I scolded them appropriately."

"Thanks, Ratch…" She watched him work, optics dimming when his mouth formed a hard frown. "Is it…bad?"

He grunted, straightening and rubbing the back of his helm. "He's going to need more surgery. I think most of the internal bleeds have been stemmed, and some of the major structures are under nanite repair, but…it's just too soon to tell when he'll recover fully, Elita, if at all. I'm sorry."

"Recover _fully_?" Magnus demanded. "What's that supposed to mean, Ratchet? That he won't bounce back from this?"

Ratchet shook his head. "Optimus is young. His repair systems are at optimum levels, and he has the added boon of the Matrix to help him along. But the biggest problem with that cannon of Megatron's is pure radiation damage, and…well. Some injuries just don't heal, Magnus. Gun wounds obtained at point-blank range tend to be among them."

"I'm not asking for a miracle, Ratchet," Elita said quickly, diffusing the tension when Magnus bristled. The city commander was a good mech, but she knew that when he was upset, his emotions tended to come out sideways as aggression. "Please, just do what you can."

"I'll do _everything_ I can, Lita, you know that," the CMO replied swiftly. "It's just…going to take some time."

"Take as long as you need." The femme got to her feet, sighing heavily and rubbing a hand over her optics. "Magnus. You and I need to inform the troops that we're assuming command."

"You want to do it so soon?"

"As soon as possible."

"I won't be letting anyone into see him unless they get your permission first," Ratchet added, pointing his syringe at Elita before bending down to inject a pain killer into Optimus's lateral fuel line, gently tilting his leader's head to the side to do so. "The last thing he needs is every concerned soldier on base crowding in here."

"Thanks, Ratch," she said, reaching across the berth to pat his arm. "I'm going to go with Magnus and get a few things sorted out, but is it alright if I stay in here tonight?"

Ratchet grunted out an affirmative, a little abashed at being petted by a femme. The Autobots' acting commanders departed, leaving the medic alone with his patient. Ratchet stood in silence for a moment, looking down at one of the most difficult repair jobs he'd faced so far. He idly tapped a monitor, pulling up the vital summary. Sparkcase wasn't breached, miraculously, probably thanks to the Matrix. Pump functional. CPU running normally. Internal heating and cooling systems—fried. Filters—fried. Energon processing systems—destroyed. Optimus's lower chest and upper abdomen were a mess of melted, radiated parts, burned protoform, and warped armor.

The best medic on the planet sighed heavily. He may as well get to work.

* * *

_**One cycle later**_

_**Iacon…**_

"Alright, Sunstreaker—would you prefer a couple that already has offspring?"

The young gladiator turned his head awkwardly—he'd been restrained to the berth when he failed to stay off of his burned side—and scowled at the assistant medic. "What are you talking about?"

Red Alert huffed impatiently. "We're attempting to assign you to a surrogate family until more permanent arrangements can be made. You and your brother are the only younglings rescued from Kaon who have not been placed in temporary homes."

"We don't need a _surrogate family_," Sunny snapped. "Just let us out of here. I've been taking care of us on my own since our creators left us in the pits."

"I think other younglings would be nice," Sideswipe spoke up from the nearest berth, ignoring his brother's hiss. "But do we have to leave base?"

Red Alert canted his head to the side, considering the younger twin and ignoring the indignant Sunstreaker. "I'm not aware of any couples on base that are looking to take in young, but there hasn't been a need until now. I can ask aroun—"

"No need."

Elita One's lofty alto drew their attention the door separating recovery from urgent care. She strode up to Red Alert, plucking away his data pad containing the list of possible surrogates, and subspaced it.

"Optimus and I are taking them in," she said lightly. Both twins stared at her, incredulous. Red Alert's jaw hung open. "Why the look of shock? We both want sparklings, but it's hardly a practical dream in the middle of a war." She winked at Sideswipe. "I'll settle for the punks my sweetspark almost gave his life for."

"I…that is…" Red Alert looked from Elita to the twins and back again. "Commander, are you sure? You and Prime are busy as it is…and these two are…are…"

"What, Red? From Kaon? Gladiators? Orphans?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "None of that matters to me, and it won't matter to Optimus. They're staying with us."

"But—"

"End of discussion, Red Alert."

"Hold on," Sunstreaker snapped. "What makes you think I _want_ to stay with you?"

Elita turned to him, lifting an optic ridge. "Would you prefer to go to some other family? A family who can't train you to be _real_ warrior, not a slag-eating gladiator?"

"I don't want to stay with the Autobot commanders! We're _enemies!_"

Red Alert bristled, looking shocked, but Elita laughed. "You can devise ways to assassinate us while I feed you your daily energon, how about that? Or maybe you can attempt to sabotage our relationship when we tuck you in at night?"

"He won't do any of that," Sideswipe broke in, shutting down Sunstreaker's biting reply. "Elita One, you…really want us? I mean, don't you want a _real_ family?"

The Autobot looked the youngling, her optics softening when he ducked his head, shy under her gaze. What had _happened_ to them in Kaon? To what depths had they had to sink in order to survive? How much had they suffered in the time it took her team to reach them? _Megatron…this injustice will not be forgotten. _

"Sideswipe," she murmured, crouching down in front of him and placing her hands over his. He looked up at her tentatively. There was something small and scared in his optics, something that made her spark ache. It made her feel _needed_. "Family is what we make of it. Optimus has been my only family for a long, long time now." The smallest of smiles quirked her mouthplates. "I'm ready to let someone else into my spark. How about you?"

He bobbed his head up and down, brightening visibly. Both of them turned to Sunstreaker, who had been looking on with glowering optics.

"Sunny," Sideswipe pleaded. "Please. Let someone take care of you for a change?"

His golden twin glared at him. "You're weak, Sides. We don't _need_ someone else to take care of us. _I've_ been doing that since Mum and Da—" He halted, his voice faltering, and he cast his dark optics down toward his lap. "We don't need them, Sides. We don't need anyone. If you think otherwise, you're weak."

Sideswipe looked up at Elita, his optics troubled, begging. She contemplated for a moment, watching the little gladiator. The hostility came off of him in waves, and it reminded her powerfully of…someone. Where had she seen this before? This deep, painful fear, this insecurity, cloaked in violence, in anger…

…Oh. _Oh._ His armor had been silver, not gold, but he had been so fragile. _He_ had been that broken once. _He_ had been that afraid. _He_ had wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees, and when Elita knelt beside him, he placed his head against her shoulder and cried…

No. No, no, no. She wasn't going to lose another youngling the way they'd lost Megatron. Never again.

"Sunstreaker," she said softly. "The only mech to ever best Megatron in combat is living on this base. You're not much of a gladiator if you don't see this as an opportunity to study the only other being who can face down the Decepticon warlord."

Sunstreaker twitched, but there was a flicker of interest in his optics. Sideswipe squeezed his fingers around Elita's; she was getting close.

"Become stronger," she suggested. "Stay here. Learn with the best. When you're older, you'll be able to make your own decisions. If you stay here, you don't have to worry about protecting your brother. You can put all of your effort into becoming the best warrior you can be."

The youngling was silent a moment more. Red Alert, all but forgotten at this point, edged sideways out the door.

At length, Sunstreaker lifted his helm, looking the Autobot femme up and down. Elita One was feared, even in Kaon. She didn't have Optimus Prime's brute strength or the almighty Matrix, but she matched him step for step in charisma and intelligence. And there was a rumor that she had a power of her own, something that even Optimus didn't possess. He could stay, he could be right in their stronghold, learning what their weaknesses were, understanding how to beat them…

Finally, the youngling nodded. "Fine."

* * *

And just like that, the twins had a family.

It was a first for both of them. For as long as they could remember, they'd been on their own—only Primus knew when their creators had expired. Sunstreaker had been fighting his entire life to keep his little brother alive. They'd lived practically in the sewers, consumed the lowest-grade energon available, seen the most brutal things on the streets.

Sunstreaker now slept in a berth. The energon was pure and carefully refined and light and sweet. He bathed whenever he wanted. There was a vid screen with over seven hundred channels, broadcasting all across the galaxy. He could listen to music. He could read if he wanted to (not that he ever wanted to). He could lie on his back and enjoy the slow passage of the distant sun.

For the most part, Elita One let them be. She was either managing the base or sitting at Optimus's side in the med bay, and was very rarely home, which meant that the twins had the Prime's spacious quarters more or less to themselves. Even then, they were well attended to. An old green mech named Kup dropped by and told them war stories, which they both loved. His tales were always grisly and unpleasant, and he wound up getting scolded by Elita for telling them. The stories only got more violent after that. The aerial commander, Jetfire, showed up once or twice and played games on the vid screen with them—well, with Sideswipe. Sunstreaker couldn't bring himself to be amicable with the loud, affable mech. Then there was the blue femme, Chromia. She showed up most often, usually accompanied by a tiny yellow sparkling called Bumblebee.

"Not mine," she explained to them, introducing them to the sparkling for the first time. "He's an orphan, like you guys. Optimus found him. Primus only knows where the little guy came from. Ironhide and I took him in."

Ironhide, as it turned out, was Chromia's bonded. That shocked Sunstreaker—he'd never met a bot in a sparkbond before. Megatron had always discouraged bonding. He targeted bonded couples on the opposite side—if you could kill one half of the bond, the other would simply die. There was no holding on once one's bondmate was gone. It was no surprise that the Decepticons saw that as threatening. It made them vulnerable. But when Sunny tried to explain that to Chromia, she only smiled a little and shook her head. It wasn't an unkind gesture, but it still hurt him, somehow—it was like she knew something he didn't.

After that encounter, Sunstreaker was disturbed to learn that there were bonded couples _everywhere_ on base. Mechs with femmes, mechs with mechs, femmes with femmes. Jazz and Prowl were bonded, as were Mirage and Hound. Jetfire's intended was a feisty, occasionally foul-mouthed femme named Firestar with an unhealthy love for large explosives. Chromia and Ironhide had the oldest bond on base, while Arcee and Springer had the youngest. Newlyweds, Chromia had explained, laughing.

Sunstreaker didn't understand it. Everyone on this base had a partner and an intimate circle of friends. It was different from the pits, different from Kaon, different from everything he'd grown up around. Sideswipe held no such qualms about their new home—he fit right in. He made friends with the older mechs, made the femmes laugh with his jokes. He liked the attention, the affection.

It made Sunny feel all the more alone.

* * *

Two full cycles passed before Optimus Prime returned to his quarters.

"Gently, gently," Ratchet coaxed, watching nervously as Ironhide and Ultra Magnus carefully helped their wounded leader off the stretcher, guiding him gingerly toward his immense berth. "Don't press the welds, go slowly—"

"We've got this, Ratch," Ultra Magnus grunted, removing Prime's arm from around his shoulder as they eased the mech down. "Optimus, are you comfortable?"

"As comfortable as I can be, considering the circumstances," Optimus rumbled, grimacing when the welds pulled tight against his injuries. "Ratchet…?"

"On it," the medic murmured, subspacing a syringe and leaning in to inject its contents into Optimus's brachial fuel line. "That'll hold off the pain until later tonight. I'll make sure Elita has the second dose."

"Thank you," Optimus murmured, a soft, relieved breath escaping him as the pain killers took effect. "Magnus…the base…?"

The acting High Protectorate shook his head, placing a hand upon his commander's shoulder. "It's all under control. Let Elita and me run the base, alright? You need your rest."

Optimus leant his head back, blinking blearily, trying to retain his focus as a pleasant fog settled over his processor. "My soldiers…"

"Stop talking…"

Magnus jumped at the voice, spinning around to see Elita standing beside him, optics locked on her prone mech. "Elita—welcome back."

"Move, Magnus."

"I beg your—?"

"I said, _move_."

Bewildered, the High Protectorate stepped to the side, and Elita immediately moved in to fill the space he'd vacated, placing a small hand upon Optimus's faceplates.

"Idiot," she murmured, her optics softening, and then leaned in to press her mouth to his. Ironhide barked out a laugh when Magnus jumped backwards away from the berth, looking embarrassed, while Ratchet rolled his optics upwards, shaking his head and muttering something about overactive younglings.

"I should mention that you're not allowed to interface," the medic grumped, "though I'm guessing that you won't listen."

"Nope," Elita said lightly, breaking the kiss to look over her shoulder, smiling sweetly at the CMO. "Could you all get the frag out now, please?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ironhide chuckled, still grinning broadly. "Call us if ya need anythin', Lita."

The three trooped out, Ironhide pushing Ratchet along ("Give 'em privacy, Ratch!"). Elita waited until they were gone, the door closed behind them, before looking back down at her mech, her optics softening.

"What?" he mumbled, blinking sleepily at the femme as she lowered her hand to his face again, caressing him gently. He felt so tired…

"Nothing," she said softly, a small smile quirking her mouthplates. "You're just cute, that's all."

He chuckled weakly, the sound barely strong enough to escape. "Thank…you…"

Elita was quiet for a moment, watching as he began to drift into recharge. Her optics tracked over his injuries, and the sight was a knife in her spark. "Hey," she said at length, leaning down to press her forehead to his, searching his gaze as his optics flickered back online. "Did you mean it? What you said before the explosion."

The Autobot commander shifted upon the berth, freeing his arm from beneath the thermal blankets so he could lift a large hand, trailing his knuckles down the side of her face. "I wouldn't…say that…in jest," he said quietly.

She caught his hand, turning to kiss his palm before cradling it back to her face. "How long?"

"The skirmish outside Centrax…afterwards, when I was…upset…the first time you kissed me…"

Her spark wrenched. That battle had been horrible. Optimus had lost his entire advance team; she had found him alone in the command center afterwards, pouring over his notes, trying to find his mistake, distraught and grieving. He had been so broken, and so vulnerable, and she knew she shouldn't, but she had stood up on the tips of her feet, placed her hands on his chest, coaxed him into removing his battlemask, kissed her leader and commander… "That was two vorns ago. Before we even started seeing each other."

Optimus quirked a smile, shrugging one shoulder. "Couldn't…help myself." He focused on her, wincing at a pang in his chest. "I…can't…"

"You're tired," she said quietly, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his mouthplates. "Rest, sweetspark. We'll talk more after you've recharged."

He shook his head, but he was fading fast, darkness moving in on the corners of his vision. "Do I…get…an answer?"

The femme froze, caught off guard by his sudden question. "Optimus," she whispered, a tremble shaking her small frame. "Optimus, I care about you. More than anything. But…"

The change in her lover was immediate and sparkbreaking. His optics hardened, jaw tightened, his frame tensing. "But you…do not…love me."

She wanted to tell him he was wrong—that he was her everything, that she wanted him and only him, that she was nothing without him. But those feelings, those thoughts, were too big to put into words, so she didn't say anything.

Optimus leant his head back against the cushions, shuttering his optics. "Are the younglings…home?"

"Yeah." Her voice sounded hollow and empty, even to her.

"Will you go…look after them, please? I'd like…to recharge."

His meaning couldn't have been clearer, and it twisted the blade in her spark. She stood slowly, unable to tear her optics from him, watched him labor for every shallow breath, struggling to reach the bliss of recharge. It occurred to her, in one concise, horrifying thought, that she could have just lost him.

* * *

"Sunstreaker—would you like to clean up your armor?"

The youngling tilted his head to the right, thumbs busily working the joysticks of his controller, optics glued to the vid screen in what could only be described as complete and absolute concentration. "It is clean."

"No, I mean…" Elita leant down, wiping at smudge on his shoulder guard, making him jump, "it's marred from all the fighting—scorch marks, you know? We could buff it out, if you like."

"What for?" he asked suspiciously, hitting pause and looking up at the femme, a frown touching his faceplates.

Elita grinned. When he pouted like that, Sunstreaker reminded her a lot of Optimus. _Cute._ "Well, your armor is so handsome—it'd be a shame to leave it smudged, don't you think?"

Sunstreaker blinked, stunned—a femme had never complimented his armor before. Pit, _no one_ had ever complimented him before, except maybe Sideswipe. His armor? Handsome? He looked down, turning his arm over, scrutinizing his forearm guards, optic ridges drawing together in concentration…

"I don't wanna feel like a femme," he mumbled, embarrassed.

The femme laughed, shaking her head. "Lots of mechs wax, Sunstreaker. Jazz, for one—Jetfire, for another—"

"They're lame," Sunstreaker interrupted flatly.

"—and Optimus," Elita finished, lifting an optic ridge, a smirk quirking her mouthplates when Sunstreaker visibly perked up. "Prime has to look his best, after all."

Movement on the other side of the living room distracted them both, and Elita lifted her head, smile turning at once to a frown. "Speak of the Unmaker…Optimus, you're not supposed to be up."

The Autobot leader paused, leaning his weight against the doorframe, holding a hand against his abdomen to keep the welds from pulling. "I was going crazy lying around," he said, shrugging one shoulder in what could have been an apologetic way. He glanced at Sunstreaker, smiling warmly when the youngling looked away quickly. "I could have sworn we took in two?"

"Sideswipe is tagging along with Prowl today," Elita replied, pushing off of the couch to stand in front of her partner. Her hands lifted to cradle his face, anxiety touching her words when she spoke next. "Do you need anything?"

Optimus paused, considering, his optics dimming ever so slightly. "We're out of pain meds," he said at length. "Could you drop by med bay and ask Ratchet for something a little less—?"

"Something that won't knock you out as soon as you take it?" she supplied, smiling when he nodded. "You got it. Have a seat, okay? I'll be right back."

Sunstreaker scrambled to get to the far side of the couch, giving the Autobot commander ample space to settle himself down as Elita set off on her errand. Prime sighed heavily, leaning back against the cushions and grimacing, kneading his mid-chassis in an attempt to soothe the ache.

It took Sunny all of about five astroseconds to realize that Optimus Prime was the exact opposite of his lover. The energetic femme did everything in her power to fill awkward silences, to continually engage her new family members in conversation. Prime, however, seemed perfectly content to sit soundlessly, staring off into space as if listening to a speaker that only he could hear.

For a while, Sunstreaker did the same. After five breems, he began to fidget. His game was still on pause. After ten, just when he thought he was going to explode from the tension, Optimus suddenly spoke.

"I'm sorry about what happened in Kaon."

The youngling turned his head, staring at the Prime. It was strange to see the object of his lifelong hatred and wrath reclining casually upon the couch, nursing his injuries, enjoying a quiet morning.

"Why're you sorry?" Sunny asked uncomfortably, ducking his helm when Optimus's optics flickered sideways to peer at him from beneath the heavy ridge of his helmet. "You didn't blow up the dorms."

Optimus shrugged one shoulder. "I know. But I should have stopped it."

Sunstreaker looked at him, bewildered. "What? How were you supposed to know it was gonna happen?"

"…I don't know. But I cannot help but feel guilty."

"That's stupid," the youngling huffed. "Rebels in Kaon blew up the dorms, right? You didn't have anything to do with it."

"…I'm still sorry. You and your brother must have had friends who were lost in that fire."

Sunstreaker shifted, uncomfortable with turn in conversation. "I didn't. Dunno about Sides."

"You grew up in the dorms but didn't have friends?"

"Gladiators…weren't supposed to."

The Prime was quiet again, though a sudden hitch in his intakes drew Sunstreaker's attention back to him. Optimus released a low rumble, his shoulders hunching, one hand covering his midriff while his optics dimmed.

"Does it…" Sunstreaker paused, struggling for the right words. "Does it hurt a lot?"

"It hurts a great deal." Optimus forced a smile, looking over his shoulder at the youngling as he got heavily to his feet. "It is, however, of no consequence. There are worse pains in this world."

"Worse pains than getting shot point-blank by a fusion cannon?" Sunstreaker said skeptically.

Optimus chuckled, then grimaced. "Oh. Ouch. Don't make me laugh. I said that worse pains existed, not that there were many of them…"

Another pregnant pause. Sunstreaker chanced a glance sideways, and was embarrassed to find the older mech's optics upon him as well. They both looked away quickly.

"So," Optimus said after a time, all but twiddling his thumbs. "Elita told me that you want to learn to fight."

"I already know how to fight."

"Of course. You want to learn how to fight better, then?"

Sunny shrugged one shoulder. "If there's stuff you know that I don't, then I want to learn it."

The Autobot commander rolled his optics upwards, smiling. "I'm sure I know that thing or two that you're unfamiliar with."

"Don't be so sure," Sunstreaker replied haughtily, folding his arms over his chest. "I learned a lot just from watching Megatron in the rings. He fought all kinds of mechs."

Optimus's optics dimmed. "Then you have learned brutality. You have learned how to exert your authority over those who cannot possibly stand against you. You have learned to throw away mercy."

He'd struck a nerve. Sunstreaker jumped to his feet, rounding on the larger mech, armor swelling indignantly off of his small protoform. His optics positively blazed.

"Show some respect," he snapped, balling his hands into fists. "_You_ don't have what it takes to be a gladiator—_that's_ why Megatron can still stick you into med bay for orns at a time! It's because your spark isn't strong enough to do what needs to be done! You had a chance to kill Megatron before he shot you—you hesitated, and that's why you fell!"

Optimus quirked his head, looking down at the little mech. "You're right," he said simply.

Sunstreaker halted, surprised. "What?"

"You're _right_," Optimus repeated. "I couldn't help but hesitate. I didn't want to take the shot, I didn't want to end Megatron's life. I should have. Primus knows how many others I've killed simply because I was too afraid to kill him." He faltered for a moment, but then a small, sad smile crossed his faceplates. "But how could I? Sunstreaker…could you imagine killing your own brother?"

* * *

Domestic life wasn't quite the paradise the twins thought it was.

They'd never been around couples before. Sure, gladiators interfaced. They brought femmes to their quarters, but not the sort of femmes that they ever bothered to see more than once. And those femmes always walked away with a hefty sum of credits for their time. But gladiators didn't have femme-friends, they didn't go out on dates, they didn't allow themselves to be seen holding hands or kissing.

It made Sunny a little ill. The sweet smiles, the whispered nothings, the lingering touches, the way they looked at each other… he realized that at one point, his own creators must have been like that. They probably kissed each other good-bye when one of them left for work, and warmed one another's energon, and stayed up late waiting for the other to get home. Had his father ever fallen into recharge with his head in his mother's lap? He must have. They'd been in love, and then they were gone.

It was almost a relief when Optimus and Elita abruptly started fighting. It upset Sideswipe, but it made an atmosphere that was worlds easier for Sunstreaker to deal with. He didn't mind the tension or the heated words or the snipped comments. He wasn't even bothered when Optimus started recharging on the couch; the mech got home late and left early, so Sunstreaker's space wasn't really infringed upon.

When he found Elita home alone, curled up on the berth that actually belonged to her mech-friend, crying all by herself…_that_ bothered him. She'd tried to brush it off, offering the most recent border skirmishes as an excuse—she thought she might have known someone who'd been lost, and even if she didn't, well, those were her comrades dying out there—but Sunstreaker knew what it was that was really weighing down her spark. Prowl and Ratchet had both been by when Optimus was away, trying to get the story from her. She'd only told Ratchet, telling Prowl, instead, to mind his own fragging business, that her relationship with the Autobot commander wasn't just a tool for boosting morale.

"But you _do_ love him, don't you, Lita?" Ratchet had said, unaware that Sunstreaker's prying audios were nearby. "And you know he'd never hurt you. You don't have to be scared of telling him."

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe decided that it was time to act. Sunny couldn't care less that Optimus was upset, but he didn't like seeing Elita cry. She'd been nothing but kind to him, and he suddenly felt the weird impulse to protect her. He had a long time to go before he would be an adult and she'd see him like a mech, so he figured that, for now, until he was big enough to take care of her, he'd have to make Optimus do it.

"All you have to do is stay with Elita," Sunny assured his twin the orn their operation was set to commence. "Just try and cheer her up some."

"What are you gonna say to Optimus?" Sideswipe asked worriedly. He swung his legs back and forth on the couch, his concerned gaze directed out toward the balcony where the Autobot commander stood, his huge frame leant against the railing while he looked out over Iacon. "We don't even know what happened, Sunny."

"I got the gist of it from the medic," the golden youngling replied swiftly. "The soft-sparked idiot thinks he can pressure Elita into saying she loves him, and I ain't gonna let 'im."

"That doesn't sound like something Optimus would do."

"I heard it with my own audios!" Sunstreaker retorted. "Look, I'm just gonna go beat some sense into him. You go sit with Elita and be your own stupid self."

"Hey!" Sides said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest, but Sunny paid him no heed. He was already out the door, stomping out onto the balcony.

Optimus Prime turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, offering the youngling a small smile. It looked—and felt—forced. "Sunstreaker. Good morning."

"Apologize," Sunstreaker said flatly, placing his hands on his hips and scowling up at the commander.

Optimus stared, his optic shutters opening and closing in several fast blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Not to _me!_"

"No, that's—" Prime sighed, placing a hand to his helm and shaking his head. "That's not what I meant. Who am I meant to apologize to? And for what, may I ask?"

"To your femme, you stupid lug," Sunny retorted, taking satisfaction from the way the older mech stiffened. "Me an' Sides have seen her cryin'. What're you gonna do about it, big mech?"

Optimus lowered his hand slowly, frowning. "Sunstreaker…what goes on between Elita and myself is none—"

"Of my business? Yeah, it is," the youngling said fiercely. "Elita brought us into your home. She said we were part of the family. If the family starts to fall apart, we get a say."

"Nothing is falling apart," Optimus said quickly, but it sounded like a lie—even to him. He hesitated, stumbling over his words. "We—everyone has—_troubles_—it's just a bump in the road."

"Yeah, well, leave her alone about it," Sunstreaker said firmly. "She's upset. And that's on you. Stupid."

Feeling that his point had been made, the youngling turned on his heel, prepared to stride confidently back into the apartment—but Optimus's soft, broken voice derailed his plans immediately.

"She…doesn't love me, Sunny."

Sunstreaker hovered. The pain in that simple statement was so heavy it hurt his spark. It made him feel weak, and some small part of his mind told him that he ought to hate himself for that, but he turned anyway, tipping his head back to look up at the Prime.

Optimus's optics were dimmed, head tilted downwards, away from the youngling, his proud shoulders sagging. His intakes hitched quietly, and Sunny sighed, stepping forward cautiously.

"I think…" The youngling fumbled for the right words. "I think she loves ya. She just doesn't know how to say it, maybe? I mean…maybe she's…scared."

Silence—and then the Prime lifted his helm, just the tiniest fraction. "You think so?"

"Sure," Sunny said, relief flooding through him. "I, uh, don't know a lot about sappy stuff like this"—the barest quirk of a smile on Optimus's mouthplates, so the youngling plowed on—"but, I see the way she looks at ya. And…stuff. But, it's a pretty big thing, right? Telling someone you love 'em."

"Yes," Optimus said quietly. "Yes, it's a…big deal." He shifted his weight to the other leg, taking the pressure off of that side of his wounded abdomen. "You're right, Sunstreaker. I need to be patient." The Prime lifted his head, his face gentling when the door to his berthroom opened, and Elita was led out by the hand by a chattering Sideswipe. "She is…worth waiting for."

"'Course I'm right," Sunny muttered. Optimus pushed off the rail, bending down to pat the youngling gently upon the head, smiling broadly when Sunny started.

"Thank you, little one."

"I'm not 'little,'" Sunstreaker objected, but Optimus was no longer listening—Elita leaned against the doorway, smiling shyly at him as he approached. Sideswipe joined his brother, nudging him in the side and grinning.

"Hey," Elita said, looking up at the mech hovering awkwardly in front of her. She couldn't keep from smiling, and couldn't bring herself to care how ridiculous she looked, grinning up at him like an idiot—he was just too precious.

"Hey," he echoed, rubbing a hand against the back of his helm, venting deeply. "Lita, I—ah—owe you an apology."

She frowned. "Optimus—"

"Not for telling you how I feel—I could never apologize for that, I don't want to—but for taking out my hurt feelings on you," he said quickly, holding up his hands to stall her. "I don't know why I thought that doing so would—"

"Optimus, I love you."

"—any better, and I understand if you want me to—"

Elita leaned around him, looking at the twins in exasperation. Sideswipe giggled while Sunstreaker huffed, shaking his head, waving the femme on. She straightened, looking back up at her babbling lover.

"Optimus, lean down for a second?"

"—Of course—and we can rewind, you know, reset, so to speak, back to before I—"

She snagged a hand into his chest armor, jerking him down closer to her own level before leaning in and pressing a swift kiss to his mouthplates. He fell silent at once, blinking in surprise as she took a step back.

"Er—thank you?"

"Listen to me, idiot," she sighed, cupping his face in one hand, her thumb brushing a scar that crossed his mouth. "I love you. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm…not good…at letting others in. It was my problem. Not yours." She sighed, smiling contently at his bewildered expression. "You're…the one, Optimus. And I'm all yours." She winced, dipping her chin, shyly avoiding his gaze. "I mean, if you'll have—"

Optimus swept her up into his arms, holding her against his chest, silencing her with a searing kiss. As if on cue, both of the twins began groaning and heaving theatrically.

"Please—no more—" Sides groaned, clutching at his brother for support. "It's _killing_ me—"

"Gross," Sunny grumbled, shielding his face with one hand—partly so he wouldn't have to watch the gooey slag, but also so they wouldn't see him smiling.

* * *

_**Two vorns later…**_

_**Autobase**_

_**Prime's quarters...**_

"Sunny, Sides—come have a look at this."

Sides chucked back the rest of his energon in one gulp, scrambling down from the table and ignoring Elita's reprimand at leaving his mess behind. The youngling trotted over to the computer console where Optimus was working, standing on the tips of his feet and holding onto the older mech's arm, peering curiously at the screen. After a moment's speculation he brightened, looking over his shoulder at his brother.

"Sunny, c'mere! Look!"

Sunstreaker sighed, muting the vidscreen before sliding off the couch, joining his brother at Optimus's side. He squirmed beneath the mech's arm, squeaking in surprise when the Prime lifted him into his lap, grinning.

"There," Optimus said, pointing to the bottom of the screen.

Sunny followed his finger, quirking his head to the side. "What is it?"

"My family registry, dating all the way back to Primon and Prima." Optimus smiled, leaning down to lift Sideswipe onto his other leg so he could better see the screen. "See anything familiar?"

"Us!" Sideswipe said eagerly, bouncing up and down and pointing, his faceplates bright and his smile wide.

Sunny felt his spark lurch with recognition at seeing the glyphs of his own name inscribed below the line where Optimus's lineage intersected Elita's. "But…" He hesitated, looking up at the Prime. "We're not really yours."

"You may as well be," Elita said, joining the mechs and leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Sunny's head, much to his consternation.

"And you two aren't bonded yet," Sideswipe added, pointing accusingly at the line joining their names.

"Not for long," Optimus replied, resting back in the arms that encircled his shoulders. "We talked it over last night and decided it's about time we made a proper family."

"You're kidding," Sunny said incredulously. "You two are getting bonded? All officially and stuff?"

"As far as the records are concerned," Elita answered, nuzzling her mouth against Optimus's audio, optics positively glowing. "Then we can finally finish the adoption process and give you two a proper younglinghood." She grinned, sneaking a hand down to stroke Optimus's chest. "The actual bonding will take place at our discretion."

"Femme," the mech growled, lowering the twins to the floor so he could stand, turning to face her and trapping her hands against his chest, "you had better watch where you put those…"

"Ew, ew, ew," Sideswipe groaned. "Too much info, guys. A simple 'yes' woulda sufficed."

Optimus looked down at him, arching an optic ridge. "Pretty big word for a little mech. Have you been hanging around Prowl?"

Sides shrugged, scuffing his foot against the floor. "Maybe. What's it to ya?"

"Wait," Sunny broke in, interrupted the playful bickering. "What about—what about when you wanna have your own kids? Do we…" He glanced anxiously toward the registry. "Do we get taken off?"

Optimus stared down at him for a moment before releasing Elita to bend down on one knee, putting himself closer to the younglings' optic levels. "Listen to me," he said firmly, placing a hand on each of their shoulders, "and remember what I have to say. It doesn't matter that you two were not born of mine and Elita's sparks. You are as much a part of our family as our sparklings will be. You are ours, just as we are yours. Unconventional though it may be, this is our family, and we love you." He smiled gently, resting a hand on Sunny's head when the little mech dipped his helm, hiding his tears. "Understand?"

Sides bobbed his head up and down; Sunny sniffled loudly, burying his face against the broad shoulder into which he was pulled.

He hadn't cried in front of Optimus and Elita—not once in the two vorns that he'd lived in their home. He couldn't remember ever crying, even during his time in the dorms of the gladiator pits, when he'd had to nurse his own injuries. When he did cry, he certainly didn't expect to be held, to be comforted. He'd never expected to feel safe or secure.

Outside of his bond with his own brother, he'd certainly never felt loved…

* * *

**Many vorns later...**

**Cybertron**

**The outskirts of Praxus…**

"Sunny?"

The golden warrior perked at the sound of his name, turning on his heel and holstering his weapon as his commanding officer approached, flipping his right hand upwards into a salute.

"Optimus, sir."

The Prime smiled, the two halves of his battlemask retracting into his helmet. He was spattered with grime, his hands looked charred from the hot discharge of his weapon, and his prized rifle hung at his hip, but he looked pleased. They'd reclaimed an energon refining facility just outside of Praxus with no deaths and minimal damage for either side—the Decepticons holding the facility, ill-supplied and exhausted, had surrendered after a few warning exchanges. It was an immense relief to the Prime, who knew that his soldiers could only stand so much more bloodshed.

"There's no need for the formality, youngling," Optimus said lightly, placing a hand on Sunny's arm to lower it before enclosing his shoulder in a firm, warm grip. "You did well today. Your self-control was amazing."

"You woulda murdered me if I started a fight," Sunny pointed out, cracking a wiry grin.

Optimus chuckled. "Maybe. It wouldn't be the first time your temper got you in trouble. But you performed admirably." He quirked his head to the side, smiling. "I'm proud of you, Sunny. Well done."

Abashed, Sunstreaker ducked his head, shrugging one shoulder. "No problem, Boss."

The Prime laughed. "I know. It's hardly a big deal for a warrior of your credentials, hm?"

Sunstreaker scowled. "I can tell when I'm being made of fun of, jerk."

"Come on, Sunny, would I make fun of you?"

"_Yes_."

Optimus grinned, poking the younger mech smartly in the shoulder. "Well, maybe if you used a little less _wax_, you'd be less of a target."

Sunstreaker batted his hand away, glaring. "You're just jealous that I look better than you on a given orn." The slag he was going to admit that Optimus was right—Elita never failed to compliment his armor, just as she had all those vorns ago, and her approval was all Sunny cared about.

Now that he thought about it, it had probably been a empty compliment—he had probably looked scruffy and underfed, his armor dingy and scratched, the paint dull and peeling. He had, perhaps, been a little ashamed of it—it was his mark, the surest sign that he had come from the slums, from the pits. And Elita had gone out of her way to see past all that, to compliment him, to make him feel okay about the way he looked. And he hadn't felt so out of place after that—he hadn't felt so different from the polished Iaconian younglings, especially after his armor had been fixed up.

He never would have made it out, he realized. If Optimus and Elita hadn't fought so hard to liberate the dorms, if Optimus hadn't taken that shot for him and Sides, if they hadn't brought the twins home…Sunny probably never would have left the dorms. He pondered that thought as Sideswipe joined them, laughing when Optimus cuffed him lightly on the helm, admonishing the young soldier for taking some risk during the raid.

"You're a mess," Sideswipe said, grinning and wiping at a smudge of mud on Optimus's helm. "What were you doing while we were fighting, rolling around on the ground?"

"That's what I normally do during fights, I didn't see any reason why I should do something different this time around."

"Optimus," Sunny said suddenly, interrupting their play. Both mechs looked up at him, midway through the mud extraction. Optimus blinked at him.

"Sunny?"

Sunstreaker hovered for a moment, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to vocalize his thoughts, his feelings, the sudden onslaught of memories.

_Thank you._

_I owe you._

_I want to be more like you._

_I wish you were my real dad. _

_I'm gonna make you proud. _

Sunstreaker shrugged, reaching out to wipe at a smudge on Optimus's shoulder, the only one covering the blaze of his Autobot crest.

"Nothing. You just missed a spot."

* * *

**I'm going to go fail my finals now.**


End file.
